


Discovery

by Morgan (morgan32)



Category: Andromeda
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-06
Updated: 2009-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-02 05:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgan32/pseuds/Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dylan gets to know Tyr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Discovery

Something unappeased, unappeasable, is within me; it longeth to find expression.  
Friedrich Nietzsche, _Thus Spake Zarathustra_

Captain Dylan Hunt stood on the deserted bridge of his ship. _His_ ship. The _Andromeda Ascendant_ was still his, though the battle to keep her had been costly.

The ship was full of ghosts: a crew no longer there. Dylan didn’t even have Andromeda for company. She was busy repairing herself, and though he knew she could spare the extra capacity it would take for her to join him, he resisted the impulse to call on her. Solitude was a thing he needed to become accustomed to.

His former crew was dead, all of them. Dylan had hope: his order to abandon ship had been given in time and while the Nietzscheans might be a ruthless enemy they would not have destroyed the life pods. But even if his people had survived the _Andromeda’s_ battle for life, even had they survived the war that followed, every member of his crew had been dead for at least two hundred years.

Centuries had passed, and Dylan had been frozen in time by the black hole. An endless instant, staring down at the body of a man he had killed. A man who, an hour before they fought to the death, had been his first officer, his friend...and his lover.

Dylan looked down at the place where Rhade’s body had lain for so long. There was no sign remaining of their battle: the bots had done a perfect clean-up job, as always. Abruptly, Dylan turned away. It was late, and these were night-thoughts. It wasn’t like him to dwell on the past. He ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. He was exhausted, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, not yet. What he needed was a good workout.

What he needed was Gaheris Rhade.

He always felt this way after a battle — turbulent thoughts and this heat in his blood. Rhade had known how to deal with it; he had often joked that Dylan took them into battle intentionally, to treat him to the aftermath. Rhade was the only lover Dylan had known who understood this part of him. Dylan’s only male lover: perhaps that made the difference. Rhade felt the same warrior’s fire. After a battle they would train together, hand-to-hand, working off the excess energy and working each other up to a different kind of battle. Until passion could be contained no longer and all the normal rules of life and friendship were unimportant. Then the fire would flare into incandescence, and their coupling would be rough: the cut and thrust of battle, sweat, and lust and occasionally blood and pain. They had needed that release, sometimes, the lines between rage and lust and passion blurred into non-existence.

Just moments. Off the _Andromeda_, Rhade had his wives and children, Dylan had his beautiful fiancée. Even so, those moments, however brief, had been the spice of his life for years, never spoken of, but certainly never regretted.

Dylan walked swiftly through the corridors. Beneath his feet, the deck seemed to hum with the residual energy of the _Andromeda’s_ engines; an effect he had never noticed when she was fully manned. He reached his favourite training room and hesitated outside the door. Would the workout help, or just make him feel even worse? He heard a sound from the other side of the door. There was someone inside.

His immediate instinct was anger: his entire crew knew this training room was _his_...but his crew was gone. This would be one of Valentine’s people. He opened the door, prepared to challenge whoever it was. When he saw the Nietzschean he stopped short.

Tyr was stripped to the waist, standing with his back to the door. Muscles rippled beneath his skin as he moved. It took Dylan only a few seconds to recognise the exercise: a form of martial arts training. Tyr moved smoothly through the katas, his movements bearing the deadly grace that can come only from long practice. As Tyr turned toward the door, Dylan tensed slightly, but Tyr showed no surprise to see him there. If he was half the warrior he looked, Dylan realised, Tyr had been aware of his presence before he entered the room. Dylan waited, watching Tyr silently as the Nietzschean completed the katas. The man was amazing. The exercise would have left Dylan gasping for breath; Tyr hadn’t so much as broken a sweat.

Tyr turned to face him finally. "Join me, or get out," he said abruptly.

Dylan hesitated. He had come here for a workout. But sparring with a Nietzschean in his present state of mind...he didn’t know where it might lead. He didn’t know where he _wanted_ it to lead.

He stripped off his jacket. "Second series?" He proposed a formalised mock-combat.

Tyr’s eyes widened in surprise, an expression swiftly masked. "You know the forms?" he asked.

"Very well."

"I wouldn’t want to hurt you," Tyr said. His tone was carefully neutral, but Dylan knew a challenge when he heard one. He had no intention of disappointing the Nietzschean.

"I can hold my own." Dylan stepped onto the mat and bowed formally. He kept his eyes on Try warily as he returned the gesture, ritually completing the challenge. As they both shifted into a combative stance, Tyr hung back slightly, encouraging Dylan to make the first move. Dylan, understanding exactly why, did as Tyr expected, beginning the combat.

It was a complex kata: a series of pre-determined movements that, if performed correctly, simulated a battle without real danger to either combatant. It could be dangerous, however, if the combatants were at different levels of skill.

As they traded kicks and blows, each testing the speed and strength of the other, their movements became faster. Tyr was everything a Nietzschean should be: easily the superior in strength, his movements swift but perfectly controlled. Had this been a genuine battle between them, Dylan knew he would be overmatched.

The kata ended with Tyr throwing Dylan to the ground. Dylan, expecting it, rolled and sprang to his feet quickly. Used to sparring with a Nietzschean, he didn’t relax but remained ready for combat. Tyr took that as an invitation, apparently, and the formal end of the kata was abandoned as their combat continued.

Dylan could hold his own, but only for a while. He ducked under one blow and felt Tyr’s bone blades graze his back, drawing blood. That was enough. He backed off, with a gesture of surrender.

"You look good on your back, Captain," Tyr told him.

Dylan bent double, resting his hands on his knees, breathing deeply. Sweat dripping down his face stung his eyes. This was about the point Rhade would have turned it into a wrestling match...

"Dylan," he corrected, looking up at Tyr. The combat had aroused him and he knew Tyr would be aware of it: Nietzschean senses were more acute than a human’s.

Tyr met his eyes for a long, breathless moment. Then, abruptly, he turned away.

Dylan straightened, shaking his hair out of his eyes. _Get your mind off your cock for a second, Hunt_, he told himself firmly. "Tyr, am I missing something?" he asked.

The tension across Tyr’s shoulders answered his question before the mercenary spoke. "Your kind and mine don’t get along," Try said gruffly.

"Three hundred years ago we did," Dylan told him. "My first officer was a Nietzschean. He was my closest friend." _Until I killed him._

Dylan closed his eyes against the memory. A mistake: he saw again the brief, white hot flame that had been Rhade’s end: Dylan’s force lance at full power. Heard again Rhade’s voice. "I’m proud of you..."

"Until the war?" Tyr said softly.

Dylan opened his eyes, surprised by the sudden gentleness in Tyr’s voice. It was the last thing he had expected. "Rhade tried to warn me. In the end, he was loyal to his own race. No compromises."

Tyr was watching him, and Dylan waited for him to ask about their battle. The mercenary must have seen Rhade’s body on the bridge before Rommie cleaned up. Instead, Tyr asked, "What was he like?"

"Everything a Nietzschean aspires to be. Honourable in his way, resourceful, strong, courageous. He was a fine officer — "

"And a good fuck?"

Dylan froze at the harsh words. "Is it that obvious?" There was no point in denying the truth: who could be hurt by it now?

Tyr nodded slowly. "In the way you fight. Is that why you came here?"

"I came here to work out," Dylan said curtly. "Alone." He turned on his heel and headed for the door.

Tyr’s hand on his shoulder was an electric shock, stopping Dylan in his tracks for a second. At the touch, his cock once again sprang to full, demanding life, but he forced that feeling down. He struck out, taking the Nietzschean by surprise, flipping Tyr over his shoulders with surprising ease.

"You look good on your back, too," Dylan said.

Tyr kicked out from the floor, his legs catching Dylan behind his knees, forcing him to the ground. Dylan rolled again as he fell, got to his feet easily and faced Tyr again. The blows they traded this time were faster, but neither man was truly trying to hurt the other.

Finally, Tyr shoved Dylan against the wall, one arm across his throat, his bone blades pricking Dylan’s flesh. He kissed Dylan roughly. Dylan couldn’t move, couldn’t fight: if he tried, Tyr’s blades would slice into his throat. He could only accept the assault, the hot slide of Tyr’s lips and tongue over his. Truthfully, he didn’t _want_ to fight: Tyr tasted good, his teeth clashed with Dylan’s and Dylan tasted blood as Tyr bit down on his lower lip.

Tyr pulled away, releasing his captive. "Don’t start something you can’t finish."

"_You_ started this," Dylan pointed out.

"So finish it."

Dylan’s insides were molten heat as he reached for Tyr. Felt Tyr’s hard body against his own. He was so hard it was painful, he had to have some release, had to... What was he doing? Forgetting one lost lover in the arms of a man he barely knew? But Tyr’s hands were already moving over Dylan’s flesh, seeking out his arousal, sliding beneath the fabric of his pants... Another moment and Dylan would be lost.

Tyr dropped his hands again. "No," he said firmly.

Dylan, breathless, could not reply. He leaned weakly against the wall, not daring to move.

"You’re a fool, Captain. We’ll finish this when you’re ready. _If_ you’re ready."

"Tyr..."

But the mercenary was already walking away. "I can wait," he tossed back as he stalked out of the door.

Slowly, the door closed behind him. Dylan’s legs felt weak and he sank to the ground. _I can wait_.

"Maybe I can’t," he said aloud.

There was absolutely no chance he would sleep tonight.


End file.
